Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Bhopal - May you rest in Peace
The growth figures of India makes us all so very conceited. We take pride in the fact that India has weathered the storm of recession better than any of the developed countries. The internal consumption led by the infamous middle class, government expenditure at the risk of increasing the fiscal deficit and inflow of foreign capital as a safe parking place had contributed to the growth. The political class is vying for the credit whether with the BJP’s “India Shining” campaign [which was a sort of blunder] or the Congress’s untoward affection for the “Common Man”.
The basic question arises if we are capable of handling such growth? Are we self disciplined enough to respect this fantastic opportunity that has been bestowed on us?
On the seventh of June the landmark judgement was passed by the court on the Bhopal Gas tragedy. The tragedy happened in 1984, when the Congress government headed by Rajiv Gandhi was at the centre and the undivided state of Madhya Pradesh had Arjun Singh [who recently fell out of favour of the Congress high command] as the Chief Minister.
Bhopal, even today is considered to be a tier 3 city, in spite of it being the capital of Madhya Pradesh. It had very few industries [Union Carbide India Limited was one of the biggest, apart from BHEL] and India was still reeling under a license Raj. The leakage of the MIC [methyl isocyanate] killed nearly 20,000 people and maimed an entire generation [some five hundred thousand people were affected by the gas and has permanent disabilities]. It is considered as one of the worst of the industrial tragedies that happened in the planet.
Candle light protests were not a fashion during those days; we were more Indian than westernized. The social activists tirelessly campaigned but the might of the government and the corporation is something even God will find difficult to fight against, and that to a corrupt government and a rogue corporation.
After 26 year and the fresh verdict there is renewed interest in the case and as usual we like rumination. We get wiser in afterthoughts.
The news channels are fielding their “best man” for the show to raise their TRPs. Is anyone concerned for real justice? I do not think so. Every morning we need some spicy news to make our day – death, tragedy, injustice – all such incidents make us feel a little better before we commence on our daily boring grind.
UCIL flouted safety norms in lieu of saving money like we do every day, not wearing a helmet while riding a two wheeler, carrying more load than a tuck can bear, carrying more passengers in a car than what is prescribed for a truck and the list goes on. They ran the plant with little or no maintenance and on depleted manpower [cost cutting had always been a fashion for multinationals for making more profits]. It was a very American way of operation, typified by running a subsidiary as an illegitimate son.
But is UCIL to blame for all these? Everyone is running after Warren Anderson, who was the Chairman of Union carbide at that point of time. One news channel in their unbridled imagination compared him with Adolf Hitler. What was his fault? He was born in a country where his mother taught him from his birth how to love the color GREEN. It was in his blood, capitalism is written large on every American. But India, which always had been on the fringes of so called socialism, what did she do repudiate the diabolical plans of the corporation? Our governments are always effete against corporation, whether foreign or innate.
Every country has strict specifications published by statutory bodies. India also does have such bodies like the Pollution Control Board, the Bureau of Indian Standards and so many others. They all have been legacies of our colonial rule and after independence, they fluttered like headless chicken. They clung to the old British Standards of the forties and never ever thought of revising them.
There are hardly any guidelines for installation of hazardous chemicals, electrical installations or anything that can lead to danger to society at large. Such is the apathy of the government and its obstinate departments to change that still today we lose more than a thousand lives every year in industrial accidents only.
Any government regulatory board can be bought or influenced with and that is not new – so the verdict of this case does not ring a new bell anyhow.
The chemical hub of Ankleswar has toxic levels which can reduce the life of people staying there by more than ten years – but the industrialists and the government take cognizance of the fact that in a country with a population of more than a billion such exigencies are always pardonable.
As a citizen we are equally culpable. More we are educated more is our disrespect for the law. A degree in engineering or medicine makes us immune to the constitution of India – we detest standing in a queue as it undermines our privilege of education. We hate to follow the lane discipline while driving as we want to prove to the world how important our role in office is for the survival of the nation.
I find one dialogue from Spiderman very apt, “With great power come greater responsibilities.”
Who are we trying to blame? It would always be between us and them as that best suits our status quo.
The victims of the Bhopal Gas tragedy were mostly people from labor class. They only have the number on their side, but not the relevant voice. Their voices pass through us, who refine it, mould it and use it for our own good.
For few good days the new channels, media will come with more and more revelations until people are fed up and then Bhopal will be once again forgotten till we again wake up from slumber to another new tragedy, the opposition will try to harass the government, the government will defend all allegations to their teeth, Arjun Singh’s stoic silence will renew his bargaining power [what goes up always comes down and the old man will have the last laugh before he dies] and the victims will lay buried in injustice simply because they cannot recite ‘Jack and Jill’ or differentiate between a wine from Boudreaux or Burgundy.
The Wikipedia page on the Bhopal Gas Tragedy has a lot of interesting information. It may be a good read on a lazy Sunday afternoon. I recommend the same and do not forget your wine as tragedy is to be relished until it strikes you.
The basic question arises if we are capable of handling such growth? Are we self disciplined enough to respect this fantastic opportunity that has been bestowed on us?
On the seventh of June the landmark judgement was passed by the court on the Bhopal Gas tragedy. The tragedy happened in 1984, when the Congress government headed by Rajiv Gandhi was at the centre and the undivided state of Madhya Pradesh had Arjun Singh [who recently fell out of favour of the Congress high command] as the Chief Minister.
Bhopal, even today is considered to be a tier 3 city, in spite of it being the capital of Madhya Pradesh. It had very few industries [Union Carbide India Limited was one of the biggest, apart from BHEL] and India was still reeling under a license Raj. The leakage of the MIC [methyl isocyanate] killed nearly 20,000 people and maimed an entire generation [some five hundred thousand people were affected by the gas and has permanent disabilities]. It is considered as one of the worst of the industrial tragedies that happened in the planet.
Candle light protests were not a fashion during those days; we were more Indian than westernized. The social activists tirelessly campaigned but the might of the government and the corporation is something even God will find difficult to fight against, and that to a corrupt government and a rogue corporation.
After 26 year and the fresh verdict there is renewed interest in the case and as usual we like rumination. We get wiser in afterthoughts.
The news channels are fielding their “best man” for the show to raise their TRPs. Is anyone concerned for real justice? I do not think so. Every morning we need some spicy news to make our day – death, tragedy, injustice – all such incidents make us feel a little better before we commence on our daily boring grind.
UCIL flouted safety norms in lieu of saving money like we do every day, not wearing a helmet while riding a two wheeler, carrying more load than a tuck can bear, carrying more passengers in a car than what is prescribed for a truck and the list goes on. They ran the plant with little or no maintenance and on depleted manpower [cost cutting had always been a fashion for multinationals for making more profits]. It was a very American way of operation, typified by running a subsidiary as an illegitimate son.
But is UCIL to blame for all these? Everyone is running after Warren Anderson, who was the Chairman of Union carbide at that point of time. One news channel in their unbridled imagination compared him with Adolf Hitler. What was his fault? He was born in a country where his mother taught him from his birth how to love the color GREEN. It was in his blood, capitalism is written large on every American. But India, which always had been on the fringes of so called socialism, what did she do repudiate the diabolical plans of the corporation? Our governments are always effete against corporation, whether foreign or innate.
Every country has strict specifications published by statutory bodies. India also does have such bodies like the Pollution Control Board, the Bureau of Indian Standards and so many others. They all have been legacies of our colonial rule and after independence, they fluttered like headless chicken. They clung to the old British Standards of the forties and never ever thought of revising them.
There are hardly any guidelines for installation of hazardous chemicals, electrical installations or anything that can lead to danger to society at large. Such is the apathy of the government and its obstinate departments to change that still today we lose more than a thousand lives every year in industrial accidents only.
Any government regulatory board can be bought or influenced with and that is not new – so the verdict of this case does not ring a new bell anyhow.
The chemical hub of Ankleswar has toxic levels which can reduce the life of people staying there by more than ten years – but the industrialists and the government take cognizance of the fact that in a country with a population of more than a billion such exigencies are always pardonable.
As a citizen we are equally culpable. More we are educated more is our disrespect for the law. A degree in engineering or medicine makes us immune to the constitution of India – we detest standing in a queue as it undermines our privilege of education. We hate to follow the lane discipline while driving as we want to prove to the world how important our role in office is for the survival of the nation.
I find one dialogue from Spiderman very apt, “With great power come greater responsibilities.”
Who are we trying to blame? It would always be between us and them as that best suits our status quo.
The victims of the Bhopal Gas tragedy were mostly people from labor class. They only have the number on their side, but not the relevant voice. Their voices pass through us, who refine it, mould it and use it for our own good.
For few good days the new channels, media will come with more and more revelations until people are fed up and then Bhopal will be once again forgotten till we again wake up from slumber to another new tragedy, the opposition will try to harass the government, the government will defend all allegations to their teeth, Arjun Singh’s stoic silence will renew his bargaining power [what goes up always comes down and the old man will have the last laugh before he dies] and the victims will lay buried in injustice simply because they cannot recite ‘Jack and Jill’ or differentiate between a wine from Boudreaux or Burgundy.
The Wikipedia page on the Bhopal Gas Tragedy has a lot of interesting information. It may be a good read on a lazy Sunday afternoon. I recommend the same and do not forget your wine as tragedy is to be relished until it strikes you.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Naushad from Morocco
It was in the winter of 1997 I reached Prien am Chiemsee, a small town in the Bavarian region of Germany. This was my first trip outside India [I believe we consider Nepal as an illegal extension of India] and that to, to a country where they speak in a strange language as if they are having a fight.
Prien has a small centre for learning German language, at that time was run by Frau Rothkirch. The institute bears her name – Language Institute Von Rothkirch.
All people who were coming to Germany for the first time, from different part of the world and working for different divisions of Siemens AG, had to spend at least one month for learning the basics of the language.
It also served as a melting pot of diverse cultures and getting to know them.
Prien had a very elderly population. The old couples, mostly retired and living alone, rented their house to the students. It also helped the students in picking up German faster as they hardly spoke anything but German, that to countryside German [Bayerisches Deutsch].
I was allotted a room with a lady called Frau Neumann. There were two rooms in the attic and I was told to choose one.
She told me that the next room was booked for a gentleman from Pakistan [although I was expecting a lady from Russia]. It gave me a subtle pleasure that at least I would not spent hours talking in English or broken German. On the other hand it was also the first time I would meet a Pakistani – flesh and blood. The 1993 Mumbai bomb blast was still fresh and the word Pakistani did not evoke much camaraderie in my mind.
Naushad Alam checked in around four in the afternoon. He was very thin [I found out when he removed his warm clothes], around the same height as mine, bespectacled and I could feel him shivering beneath the layer of three coats that he was wearing and in spite of the heater turned full on.
We shook hands, introduced each other in English and then he went to his room to get fresh and change.
He came back to my room, looking a bit fresh but I could feel that he was a bit scared. I made him a cup of tea and offered him some biscuits.
He sat there in the bed, palms crossed between his legs, shivering in pulses. He seemed as innocent as a terrorist.
He was from Karachi and had joined Siemens only a year back. He has never travelled outside Karachi, leave aside being abroad. His chance came by proxy as the person who was originally scheduled to come fell sick. In a short notice he had to make arrangements, like getting his passport and then visa, buying warm clothes, food items, pressure cooker, pulses etc. He paid almost the same amount as his ticket fare in excess baggage and it was only a miracle how he lifted his stuff alone on the second floor of the building.
He was so shy that he refused to lift his face up while speaking to me. I felt a little disconcerting but carried on the conversation. Naushad spoke in a very soft voice, as if he has not yet reached his puberty.
“It is so stupid that in spite of being neighboring countries we are speaking in English.” said Naushad.
“Yes, but as per rules we should be speaking German. By the way what language do you speak?”
“I speak Urdu only, and you?”
“I speak Bengali, the language they speak in erstwhile East Pakistan and a bit of Hindi.”
“No, I do not understand any of the languages.”
“But Hindi is not that different from Urdu, except for the script.”
“Maybe, but I have never heard the language. But I heard that many in India speak Urdu.”
“Yes, maybe in the erstwhile princely state of Hyderabad and Lucknow.”
“Ah! Hyderabad, which was invaded by the Indian army and forcefully annexed it to the Indian state.”
I was totally foxed by his statement, Hyderabad – attacked by Indian Army – annexed. It was a total spin and I was left flabbergasted.
“Your army also invaded Goa and more so many people got killed, India was acting fascist at that time.”
We were sitting and having our discussion in a country which has a history of Fascism about forty years back, but no one has dared call India fascist.
“And what you did in Nagaland, killing the tribal, just because they refused to be a part of the Indian state and demanded their freedom. Their leader Phizo was exiled and continued the fight from England.”
“Excuse me, Phizo who?” I was almost sweating.
The soft spoken, gentle Pakistani was telling me the history of my own country which I was totally unaware off or was it a Pakistani propaganda.
I told him that I need to go out and make a call to my family. I rushed to the nearest telephone booth and called my father and asked in sequence what Naushad had told me. It was a part of history post independence and who in the world of our age cared about history.
But some countries do like Pakistan. When you want to inflict hatred against someone a counter productive history comes handy.
You obfuscate a part of it, mould it to suit your goals and brainwash the people. Pakistan had no history – a country only forty years old and having a series of leadership change, junta rules, and a country born on the principle of hatred cannot have a history.
Few days later, when we realized that I can understand his Urdu and he can somehow understand my Hindi [which he kept on arguing was Urdu, but the fascist Indian government gave a new name] I had asked him about his roots.
He thought for a moment and then he said with a smile,” We are decedents of a business family from Morocco, who came to make is fortune in Afghanistan and later settled in Karachi after Pakistan was formed.”
Naushad Alam would never even have a shadow of India cross his frame.
Prien has a small centre for learning German language, at that time was run by Frau Rothkirch. The institute bears her name – Language Institute Von Rothkirch.
All people who were coming to Germany for the first time, from different part of the world and working for different divisions of Siemens AG, had to spend at least one month for learning the basics of the language.
It also served as a melting pot of diverse cultures and getting to know them.
Prien had a very elderly population. The old couples, mostly retired and living alone, rented their house to the students. It also helped the students in picking up German faster as they hardly spoke anything but German, that to countryside German [Bayerisches Deutsch].
I was allotted a room with a lady called Frau Neumann. There were two rooms in the attic and I was told to choose one.
She told me that the next room was booked for a gentleman from Pakistan [although I was expecting a lady from Russia]. It gave me a subtle pleasure that at least I would not spent hours talking in English or broken German. On the other hand it was also the first time I would meet a Pakistani – flesh and blood. The 1993 Mumbai bomb blast was still fresh and the word Pakistani did not evoke much camaraderie in my mind.
Naushad Alam checked in around four in the afternoon. He was very thin [I found out when he removed his warm clothes], around the same height as mine, bespectacled and I could feel him shivering beneath the layer of three coats that he was wearing and in spite of the heater turned full on.
We shook hands, introduced each other in English and then he went to his room to get fresh and change.
He came back to my room, looking a bit fresh but I could feel that he was a bit scared. I made him a cup of tea and offered him some biscuits.
He sat there in the bed, palms crossed between his legs, shivering in pulses. He seemed as innocent as a terrorist.
He was from Karachi and had joined Siemens only a year back. He has never travelled outside Karachi, leave aside being abroad. His chance came by proxy as the person who was originally scheduled to come fell sick. In a short notice he had to make arrangements, like getting his passport and then visa, buying warm clothes, food items, pressure cooker, pulses etc. He paid almost the same amount as his ticket fare in excess baggage and it was only a miracle how he lifted his stuff alone on the second floor of the building.
He was so shy that he refused to lift his face up while speaking to me. I felt a little disconcerting but carried on the conversation. Naushad spoke in a very soft voice, as if he has not yet reached his puberty.
“It is so stupid that in spite of being neighboring countries we are speaking in English.” said Naushad.
“Yes, but as per rules we should be speaking German. By the way what language do you speak?”
“I speak Urdu only, and you?”
“I speak Bengali, the language they speak in erstwhile East Pakistan and a bit of Hindi.”
“No, I do not understand any of the languages.”
“But Hindi is not that different from Urdu, except for the script.”
“Maybe, but I have never heard the language. But I heard that many in India speak Urdu.”
“Yes, maybe in the erstwhile princely state of Hyderabad and Lucknow.”
“Ah! Hyderabad, which was invaded by the Indian army and forcefully annexed it to the Indian state.”
I was totally foxed by his statement, Hyderabad – attacked by Indian Army – annexed. It was a total spin and I was left flabbergasted.
“Your army also invaded Goa and more so many people got killed, India was acting fascist at that time.”
We were sitting and having our discussion in a country which has a history of Fascism about forty years back, but no one has dared call India fascist.
“And what you did in Nagaland, killing the tribal, just because they refused to be a part of the Indian state and demanded their freedom. Their leader Phizo was exiled and continued the fight from England.”
“Excuse me, Phizo who?” I was almost sweating.
The soft spoken, gentle Pakistani was telling me the history of my own country which I was totally unaware off or was it a Pakistani propaganda.
I told him that I need to go out and make a call to my family. I rushed to the nearest telephone booth and called my father and asked in sequence what Naushad had told me. It was a part of history post independence and who in the world of our age cared about history.
But some countries do like Pakistan. When you want to inflict hatred against someone a counter productive history comes handy.
You obfuscate a part of it, mould it to suit your goals and brainwash the people. Pakistan had no history – a country only forty years old and having a series of leadership change, junta rules, and a country born on the principle of hatred cannot have a history.
Few days later, when we realized that I can understand his Urdu and he can somehow understand my Hindi [which he kept on arguing was Urdu, but the fascist Indian government gave a new name] I had asked him about his roots.
He thought for a moment and then he said with a smile,” We are decedents of a business family from Morocco, who came to make is fortune in Afghanistan and later settled in Karachi after Pakistan was formed.”
Naushad Alam would never even have a shadow of India cross his frame.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
My Misadventures in USA -Part II
“I speak American.”
“How is it different from English?”
“English is spoken by the natives of England.”
“Yes, I understand, but how is your language different?”
When asked, “How are you?” we say,” I am good” and they say,” I am doing fine.”
“Anything more, that’s just an expression. I mean, semantically is there a difference?”
“Look here, my friend, we speak American and you ask those darn Brits what’s the difference?”
The first morning breakfast did not make me any wiser about the American way of life, but at least it was the beginning. The Americans are generally happy go lucky kind; take things as they come, not going deep or into the root of anything, quite superficial, which is in a way good and in a way bad.
When you meet anyone, irrespective of the fact that you are total strangers, you are always met with a greeting,”Hey, how are you doing today?” By the time you can gather your breath and mutter,” I am fine, what about you?” the person will be a mile [see, I started talking miles] away from you. But, it’s alright; it’s the thought that counts.
Our training was quite fun, the Americans have a nice way of presentation. It was much less of training but more of an interaction, the deeper understandings being told with lively anecdotes. Of the four days of training we only had a slide show of ten minutes and the rest all were like Hans Anderson stories.
The group was quite diverse, there were four people from Quebec, Canada and they spoke more French than American [English], three guys were from North Carolina and the heaviest among them [which already clarifies that all were overweight] kept on humming a CCR number, and I was the lone Indian and that too a dark one.
The organizers everyday placed a huge box full of Donuts of different types. After having one I realized why “Type One” Diabetes and obesity is so popular in USA, but went on to have more than four everyday and realized that it’s not the fault of the people but the Donut manufacturer, it is so difficult to resist.
Rockford in April was by no imagination hot, temperatures were hovering between three to twelve degree centigrade and a hot steaming coffee was my constant companion. But my friends in the class did not agree with me. While I was helping myself with hot coffee, they were filling their cups with crushed ice. Some chewed on the ice, making an awful noise and running a shiver in my spine, others just sipped at intervals to have the water from melted ice. Later I found that wherever you go and ask for water they will give you cold water with ice cubes. Some things in life are beyond logic and I treated this as one of them.
I was ready for the breakfast on the second day, ordered eggs [there is nothing singular in US, all are big, oversized] to be made nice and easy with brown bread and sausages with coffee on the go. Felt so satisfied. One of the French guys ordered for pancakes with maple syrup. When it was served, it reminded me of “set dosa” served with molasses.
My friend took me for dinner that night. It was a nice place, a sports bar sort of, but they also served the best steak in Rockford. Rockford is a small town and I think there are not much of Indians that live there.
The young bartender was nice and friendly and asked me,” What can I get you for a drink, Kingfisher or Stella Artois?” It was smart of him as it proved that he knows the taste of people as per their nationality.
For the main course I had already decided to try the Sirloin steak with mashed potato. The following conversation followed:
“So gentlemen, have you decided on the main course, the kitchen is about to close in one hours time.”
“I will have the Sirloin steak with mashed potato and ribs.”
“What’s the portion you want, six, eight or eleven ounce?”
“I will go for eleven ounce”
“How would you like to have your steak – rare, medium or well done?”
“Medium, I guess [I just want to eat my cow].”
“Will it be rare medium or medium well done?”
“Simply medium, I mean medium-medium.”
“That’s great; you would like to have salad or French fries along with the steak?”
“Salad, please.” [Please let me have my food, the kitchen will close by the time you are finished with the order].
“What dressing would you like to have with the salad?”
Now, that was enough, I could not take it any more.
“Tahina mixed with Hummus topped with crushed Mutabel.”
This completely unsettled the young man. He has never heard of these Middle Eastern concoctions in his life.
Still he faced up to my challenge and said,” Sorry, Sir, we don’t have those dressings – it does not go well with our salad.”
Now the address turned to a polite “Sir”.
“Do you have Thousand Island or Miracle Whip?” I was complete novice when it comes to salad dressing – but these names I have seen when I had been to Subways.
The bartender almost broke down,” No, Sir, we only have Ranch, Blue Cheese and French dressing and I will serve you samples of all and whatever you like I will serve you more.”
“Thank you; please rush before the kitchen closes.”
It gave me a good feeling to win a small physiological battle, but the steak was one of the best one I ever had in my life.
“How is it different from English?”
“English is spoken by the natives of England.”
“Yes, I understand, but how is your language different?”
When asked, “How are you?” we say,” I am good” and they say,” I am doing fine.”
“Anything more, that’s just an expression. I mean, semantically is there a difference?”
“Look here, my friend, we speak American and you ask those darn Brits what’s the difference?”
The first morning breakfast did not make me any wiser about the American way of life, but at least it was the beginning. The Americans are generally happy go lucky kind; take things as they come, not going deep or into the root of anything, quite superficial, which is in a way good and in a way bad.
When you meet anyone, irrespective of the fact that you are total strangers, you are always met with a greeting,”Hey, how are you doing today?” By the time you can gather your breath and mutter,” I am fine, what about you?” the person will be a mile [see, I started talking miles] away from you. But, it’s alright; it’s the thought that counts.
Our training was quite fun, the Americans have a nice way of presentation. It was much less of training but more of an interaction, the deeper understandings being told with lively anecdotes. Of the four days of training we only had a slide show of ten minutes and the rest all were like Hans Anderson stories.
The group was quite diverse, there were four people from Quebec, Canada and they spoke more French than American [English], three guys were from North Carolina and the heaviest among them [which already clarifies that all were overweight] kept on humming a CCR number, and I was the lone Indian and that too a dark one.
The organizers everyday placed a huge box full of Donuts of different types. After having one I realized why “Type One” Diabetes and obesity is so popular in USA, but went on to have more than four everyday and realized that it’s not the fault of the people but the Donut manufacturer, it is so difficult to resist.
Rockford in April was by no imagination hot, temperatures were hovering between three to twelve degree centigrade and a hot steaming coffee was my constant companion. But my friends in the class did not agree with me. While I was helping myself with hot coffee, they were filling their cups with crushed ice. Some chewed on the ice, making an awful noise and running a shiver in my spine, others just sipped at intervals to have the water from melted ice. Later I found that wherever you go and ask for water they will give you cold water with ice cubes. Some things in life are beyond logic and I treated this as one of them.
I was ready for the breakfast on the second day, ordered eggs [there is nothing singular in US, all are big, oversized] to be made nice and easy with brown bread and sausages with coffee on the go. Felt so satisfied. One of the French guys ordered for pancakes with maple syrup. When it was served, it reminded me of “set dosa” served with molasses.
My friend took me for dinner that night. It was a nice place, a sports bar sort of, but they also served the best steak in Rockford. Rockford is a small town and I think there are not much of Indians that live there.
The young bartender was nice and friendly and asked me,” What can I get you for a drink, Kingfisher or Stella Artois?” It was smart of him as it proved that he knows the taste of people as per their nationality.
For the main course I had already decided to try the Sirloin steak with mashed potato. The following conversation followed:
“So gentlemen, have you decided on the main course, the kitchen is about to close in one hours time.”
“I will have the Sirloin steak with mashed potato and ribs.”
“What’s the portion you want, six, eight or eleven ounce?”
“I will go for eleven ounce”
“How would you like to have your steak – rare, medium or well done?”
“Medium, I guess [I just want to eat my cow].”
“Will it be rare medium or medium well done?”
“Simply medium, I mean medium-medium.”
“That’s great; you would like to have salad or French fries along with the steak?”
“Salad, please.” [Please let me have my food, the kitchen will close by the time you are finished with the order].
“What dressing would you like to have with the salad?”
Now, that was enough, I could not take it any more.
“Tahina mixed with Hummus topped with crushed Mutabel.”
This completely unsettled the young man. He has never heard of these Middle Eastern concoctions in his life.
Still he faced up to my challenge and said,” Sorry, Sir, we don’t have those dressings – it does not go well with our salad.”
Now the address turned to a polite “Sir”.
“Do you have Thousand Island or Miracle Whip?” I was complete novice when it comes to salad dressing – but these names I have seen when I had been to Subways.
The bartender almost broke down,” No, Sir, we only have Ranch, Blue Cheese and French dressing and I will serve you samples of all and whatever you like I will serve you more.”
“Thank you; please rush before the kitchen closes.”
It gave me a good feeling to win a small physiological battle, but the steak was one of the best one I ever had in my life.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
My Misadventure's in U.S.A - Part I
The Lufthansa flight, which was the first one to take off from Frankfurt to cross the Atlantic defying the dictums of the met department and the volcanic ashes, landed in Chicago O’Hara International airport in the wee hours of the morning. The airport was deserted except for few duty bound officials.
I had my turn in the immigration with a middle aged lady, who wanted to laugh out loud looking at the condition of the passengers but as per the training imparted on her had to maintain a stern face. After taking all forms of prints of my body parts and some frivolous questions, answered by equally mundane answers, she put a stamp on my visa and said,” Have fun.”
By the time I checked into the hotel, The Clock Tower in Rockford, it was around two in the morning and way past my sleeping hours. The lady in the reception handed my two access cards for the room to which I sheepishly asked,” Are they both for the room?”
May be it was a dumb question as she stared at me and said,” Excuse me.”
I took the strength to ask again,” Are these keys to the same room?”
She shook her head in disbelief and said, “Yes, any problems?” No, I realized I was in United States of America, where things are different if not somewhat through [as per them and stupid as per me].
I had been in Gulf countries and realized that they do things completely different from how we do things back here in India. That was contributed by the humorous fact that Muslims do exactly opposite to that of Hindus.
I nearly spend ten minutes trying to open the door, inserting that card, taking it out, waiting for the green light to blink and push the door lever down to enter. I am not a simpleton and it is not that it was by first visit abroad from Jhumritalaiya.
I went back to the reception, expressed my inability to enter my room. By now she was quite irritated; because I found out that I was causing a rift between her and her big fat burger [at two in the night?].
She came along me, after whispering a little sweet nothing to her burger [that meant a big bite] did the same things I did till she lifted the door knob UP to let me in. It was a second welcome to Uncle Sam’s land.
Since I could not sleep I tried to see all gadgets in the room, tried operating them [if it did not work in my way I always tried the opposite and in most cases it worked, they took pity and left the TV remote unchanged – Green button for ON and Red for OFF] and then realized that I was once again in trouble.
My hand phone was telling me to feed her with energy and there was a complete mismatch with the plug and the socket. I had one adaptor for Germany, Britain, Australia and even one for Mocondo, but nothing would go in. It was like a strict no, no without Durex [in America, use American].
Next day, early in the morning, I made my first trip to the famously infamous Walmart [thank god, they are open 24X7] and picked up an “all American adapter for the rest of the world” for $ twenty. My initiations to America were quite costly.
When I came back, participants for the training program were already at the breakfast. A little bit of self introduction and getting to know each other was interrupted by the waitress’s [she was a stout lady in her fifties] wake up call,” Hey, how are you doing today and what can I serve you for breakfast?”
I was about to say, Idli, Sambhar and Chatni separate [I have aligned my taste with the place I stay now] but realized that would be too much to ask for.
Wherever I have been, breakfast had always been a buffet, so ordering from menu was more or less the first time. I usually have a light breakfast of milk and cornflakes and sometimes an egg with a piece of bread.
I asked her if I can have a couple of toasts and an egg to go with.
“What sort of bread would you like – with butter, full fat or margarine or jam to go with? How do you want your eggs to be served and would you take coffee, tea or orange juice? And by the way you need to tell me if you want bacon or sausage along with the egg.”
Honey, you just shrunk me.
No one told me how my face looked at that point of time but I could hear the lady saying,” Don’t worry, Honey – I will get the right stuff for you.”
I was served with toasted brown bread with butter with a small accompaniment of jam, a fresh garden omlette with golden brown mashed potato, three big fat beef sausages and a steaming cup of coffee.
That was one hell of my first morning in the United States of America.
I had my turn in the immigration with a middle aged lady, who wanted to laugh out loud looking at the condition of the passengers but as per the training imparted on her had to maintain a stern face. After taking all forms of prints of my body parts and some frivolous questions, answered by equally mundane answers, she put a stamp on my visa and said,” Have fun.”
By the time I checked into the hotel, The Clock Tower in Rockford, it was around two in the morning and way past my sleeping hours. The lady in the reception handed my two access cards for the room to which I sheepishly asked,” Are they both for the room?”
May be it was a dumb question as she stared at me and said,” Excuse me.”
I took the strength to ask again,” Are these keys to the same room?”
She shook her head in disbelief and said, “Yes, any problems?” No, I realized I was in United States of America, where things are different if not somewhat through [as per them and stupid as per me].
I had been in Gulf countries and realized that they do things completely different from how we do things back here in India. That was contributed by the humorous fact that Muslims do exactly opposite to that of Hindus.
I nearly spend ten minutes trying to open the door, inserting that card, taking it out, waiting for the green light to blink and push the door lever down to enter. I am not a simpleton and it is not that it was by first visit abroad from Jhumritalaiya.
I went back to the reception, expressed my inability to enter my room. By now she was quite irritated; because I found out that I was causing a rift between her and her big fat burger [at two in the night?].
She came along me, after whispering a little sweet nothing to her burger [that meant a big bite] did the same things I did till she lifted the door knob UP to let me in. It was a second welcome to Uncle Sam’s land.
Since I could not sleep I tried to see all gadgets in the room, tried operating them [if it did not work in my way I always tried the opposite and in most cases it worked, they took pity and left the TV remote unchanged – Green button for ON and Red for OFF] and then realized that I was once again in trouble.
My hand phone was telling me to feed her with energy and there was a complete mismatch with the plug and the socket. I had one adaptor for Germany, Britain, Australia and even one for Mocondo, but nothing would go in. It was like a strict no, no without Durex [in America, use American].
Next day, early in the morning, I made my first trip to the famously infamous Walmart [thank god, they are open 24X7] and picked up an “all American adapter for the rest of the world” for $ twenty. My initiations to America were quite costly.
When I came back, participants for the training program were already at the breakfast. A little bit of self introduction and getting to know each other was interrupted by the waitress’s [she was a stout lady in her fifties] wake up call,” Hey, how are you doing today and what can I serve you for breakfast?”
I was about to say, Idli, Sambhar and Chatni separate [I have aligned my taste with the place I stay now] but realized that would be too much to ask for.
Wherever I have been, breakfast had always been a buffet, so ordering from menu was more or less the first time. I usually have a light breakfast of milk and cornflakes and sometimes an egg with a piece of bread.
I asked her if I can have a couple of toasts and an egg to go with.
“What sort of bread would you like – with butter, full fat or margarine or jam to go with? How do you want your eggs to be served and would you take coffee, tea or orange juice? And by the way you need to tell me if you want bacon or sausage along with the egg.”
Honey, you just shrunk me.
No one told me how my face looked at that point of time but I could hear the lady saying,” Don’t worry, Honey – I will get the right stuff for you.”
I was served with toasted brown bread with butter with a small accompaniment of jam, a fresh garden omlette with golden brown mashed potato, three big fat beef sausages and a steaming cup of coffee.
That was one hell of my first morning in the United States of America.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
TIME WRAP - INTERNET CONNECTION
Exactly a decade back I was one of the privileged few who had a personal computer at work with an internet connection. In those days to have an email account meant filling up a series of forms, with justification for the need to have an “expensive” mail account, when there were regular mode of communication like telephone, fax or the post. The forms needed to be submitted to the departmental head who in his own great managerial demeanor would sit on the file till you poked him about the same. Then came the monologue which by then was known to any person even remotely connected to our business unit. It came to be known as the “Great Indian Management” jargon.
Without even looking at you, scribbling on a notepad, the great manager would rue about the rising cost, the need for austerity, how receivables are increasing leading to lesser profitability, reduced sale due to lesser demand [attributed to either bad monsoon or severe health problems of anyone in Gandhi family] and self restraint in these trying times.
Then he would look up through his glasses which were just left hanging on the nose and say triumphantly that he is no bigot, he cares for his people and understands that technology is the only way for the future.
That ultimately meant that you will get your mail account in the future which can stretch from few weeks to few months.
Nowadays the same manager, when fed up from not getting the office-boy on the pantry phone for a cup of tea, sends him a text message for the same.
I had just come back from overseas training and the business unit had set a precondition that I should have a mail account and an internet connection for faster communication and updates.
The form for the internet connection needed to be signed by the director of the company, it was even beyond the jurisdiction of the “great” manager who is responsible for the profit loss account of the division. They said it is for greater good and the cost needs to be adjusted across the divisions. At one point the feeling was that an internet connection was more crucial than a couple of senior managers.
Getting the internet connection was after all not that difficult. After the form was approved it took few minutes for a person to hook up a connector into my computer and say,” Open Sesame”. There you are in front of the World Wide Web and hardly knowing what to do.
I still remember the most popular search site was AltaVista [do not know if it still exists] and the first thing everybody worth their salt and an internet connection did was to open a Hotmail account.
I was no different [I was not married then, people generally say life becomes different after marriage].
The best part of the net during those days was that most of the contents were free as most things in life in the beginning are. There was hardly any filter and the greatest demand for the internet was after office hours.
People who started packing their bags at four to catch the bus at five to get back to home suddenly felt the urge to devote more time for the good of the company.
We had the internet connection but the computer we had would have been now an archeologist’s delight.
We calculated that the time taken by the computer to start up was exactly the time for a person to finish a “Will Navy Cut” cigarette.
After hitting the “enter” key by the time a new page loaded you could very well say,” Jawaharlal Nehru liked the smell of Lady Mountbatten’s armpit and she never used a deodorant.”
Gross, but we were acting our age.
We all made these things up, thinking that some day we would tell these stories to the next generation.
We chatted after office hours, made up names, age and also gender in the chat rooms – it was fun and we did it all collectively, not in the solitude, in the remote corner of a room.
I still am in touch with a friend I met on one of the chat rooms.
Ten long years – sometimes you do not even remember how fast time catches up with you.
Without even looking at you, scribbling on a notepad, the great manager would rue about the rising cost, the need for austerity, how receivables are increasing leading to lesser profitability, reduced sale due to lesser demand [attributed to either bad monsoon or severe health problems of anyone in Gandhi family] and self restraint in these trying times.
Then he would look up through his glasses which were just left hanging on the nose and say triumphantly that he is no bigot, he cares for his people and understands that technology is the only way for the future.
That ultimately meant that you will get your mail account in the future which can stretch from few weeks to few months.
Nowadays the same manager, when fed up from not getting the office-boy on the pantry phone for a cup of tea, sends him a text message for the same.
I had just come back from overseas training and the business unit had set a precondition that I should have a mail account and an internet connection for faster communication and updates.
The form for the internet connection needed to be signed by the director of the company, it was even beyond the jurisdiction of the “great” manager who is responsible for the profit loss account of the division. They said it is for greater good and the cost needs to be adjusted across the divisions. At one point the feeling was that an internet connection was more crucial than a couple of senior managers.
Getting the internet connection was after all not that difficult. After the form was approved it took few minutes for a person to hook up a connector into my computer and say,” Open Sesame”. There you are in front of the World Wide Web and hardly knowing what to do.
I still remember the most popular search site was AltaVista [do not know if it still exists] and the first thing everybody worth their salt and an internet connection did was to open a Hotmail account.
I was no different [I was not married then, people generally say life becomes different after marriage].
The best part of the net during those days was that most of the contents were free as most things in life in the beginning are. There was hardly any filter and the greatest demand for the internet was after office hours.
People who started packing their bags at four to catch the bus at five to get back to home suddenly felt the urge to devote more time for the good of the company.
We had the internet connection but the computer we had would have been now an archeologist’s delight.
We calculated that the time taken by the computer to start up was exactly the time for a person to finish a “Will Navy Cut” cigarette.
After hitting the “enter” key by the time a new page loaded you could very well say,” Jawaharlal Nehru liked the smell of Lady Mountbatten’s armpit and she never used a deodorant.”
Gross, but we were acting our age.
We all made these things up, thinking that some day we would tell these stories to the next generation.
We chatted after office hours, made up names, age and also gender in the chat rooms – it was fun and we did it all collectively, not in the solitude, in the remote corner of a room.
I still am in touch with a friend I met on one of the chat rooms.
Ten long years – sometimes you do not even remember how fast time catches up with you.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Trapped by Nature
We think that human beings are the smartest animal on this planet and in our endeavor to prove that we are above The Ultimate we make wasteful expenditures like creating the world’s largest and highest energy particle accelerator in Switzerland. Billions of Euros has been pumped by CERN in the Large Hardon Collider (LCH) project which is a disaster for the environment, in the guise of finding the scenario that happened just after the Big Bang.
We understand a bit of physics which present scientists call history and have put under achieves as classical physics. It is much like the beautiful rock music of the sixties and seventies which is also relegated to Rock classics.
It made sense when we were told that apples can only fall down from a tree because it has no wings to fly up, the same reason why people cannot fly without an airplane. Gravity was understandable but anti gravity involved a lot of mathematics that went beyond our Famous Four of add, subtract, multiply and divide.
Fusion hot or cold was not as cool as fusion music and the names of scientists were as complicated as Max Plank, Schrödinger, Heisenberg, Einstein (a singular stone) as their theories were. I always thought that Schrödinger’s Cat was a distant relative of a Siamese cat, but never realized why it would be a statistical problem for a cat to live in a box with a radioactive particle.
Einstein deduced a simple formula E= mc² and said that the only way to retain your beauty is not to go through Botox or not a sip from the Holy Grail but to fly faster than the speed of light. That is the way of life, predict something unachievable and you get a Nobel and even if we do fly faster than the speed of light, Steven Spielberg intimidated us the problems we may land up with a series of “Back to Future” movies.
I am not against modern physics, but when you are stuck in Frankfurt for three days in a row because of a volcano which wake up from sleep after a period much longer than Rip Van Winkle took (it went to sleep in 1817), none of our brightest scientists could even visualize that such a thing would happen. Science is not meant for predicting the past; if it is so then the profession of scientist’s is as much as debated as that of soothsayers. It is to predict what may be the consequences of certain events or occurrence of events.
Scientists are also getting media savvy and using nice jargons – the other day I heard a scientist calling the event a “Black Swan’ event. An event which is likely to happen but it is beyond human predicament.
You can do nothing better that watching all the crap in the television while praying to God when he will again be merciful to us.
People, who are trapped and are atheists, should be given the last chance to fly out, because nature is nothing but a reflection of The Ultimate – whether you believe or not.
We understand a bit of physics which present scientists call history and have put under achieves as classical physics. It is much like the beautiful rock music of the sixties and seventies which is also relegated to Rock classics.
It made sense when we were told that apples can only fall down from a tree because it has no wings to fly up, the same reason why people cannot fly without an airplane. Gravity was understandable but anti gravity involved a lot of mathematics that went beyond our Famous Four of add, subtract, multiply and divide.
Fusion hot or cold was not as cool as fusion music and the names of scientists were as complicated as Max Plank, Schrödinger, Heisenberg, Einstein (a singular stone) as their theories were. I always thought that Schrödinger’s Cat was a distant relative of a Siamese cat, but never realized why it would be a statistical problem for a cat to live in a box with a radioactive particle.
Einstein deduced a simple formula E= mc² and said that the only way to retain your beauty is not to go through Botox or not a sip from the Holy Grail but to fly faster than the speed of light. That is the way of life, predict something unachievable and you get a Nobel and even if we do fly faster than the speed of light, Steven Spielberg intimidated us the problems we may land up with a series of “Back to Future” movies.
I am not against modern physics, but when you are stuck in Frankfurt for three days in a row because of a volcano which wake up from sleep after a period much longer than Rip Van Winkle took (it went to sleep in 1817), none of our brightest scientists could even visualize that such a thing would happen. Science is not meant for predicting the past; if it is so then the profession of scientist’s is as much as debated as that of soothsayers. It is to predict what may be the consequences of certain events or occurrence of events.
Scientists are also getting media savvy and using nice jargons – the other day I heard a scientist calling the event a “Black Swan’ event. An event which is likely to happen but it is beyond human predicament.
You can do nothing better that watching all the crap in the television while praying to God when he will again be merciful to us.
People, who are trapped and are atheists, should be given the last chance to fly out, because nature is nothing but a reflection of The Ultimate – whether you believe or not.
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